A Hetalian's Mind
by Surgical Rose
Summary: What goes on inside a Hetalian's head? Well it can range from the normal, accepted pairings to the cracky, crack-tastic of them all. It can also range from a normal scenario to a completely bizarre scenario, but hey, anything can happen since it's Hetalia!


Hello Hetalians! This is Surgical Rose - a complete and utter newbie to the Hetalia fanfiction fandom, so I hope that this fanfiction that was generated by a reader insert by Schwer von Begriff on Deviantart, doesn't irritate anyone or put myself in a negative position for any future fanfics.

This was my first time writing a crack/friendship sort of fanfic that included the reader as a secondary character, so if you have any tips that you wish to share to help me improve my writing the next time a reader or crack fanfic shows up then that would be very appreciated :3

Also, if you can think of a better title then please feel free to suggest :3

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or any nations, micro-nations, empires, etc.

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**A Hetalian's Mind**

**Chapter One - Interested Russian**

The Russian woman surveyed her surroundings with great interest; her eyes wide as saucers; her mouth slightly agape; the slight appreciative "ooo" sounding whenever she saw something other than snow. She made the sound one too often for your liking, but who cares, at least you weren't freezing your ass off in Moscow or having a very irked Belarus silently send filthy, murderous glances your way whilst slowly sharpening a blade that you knew it wasn't going to slice the strangely sweet apple pie he apparently made from sour apples.

Could sour apples turn sweet when it was being cooked by Belarus?

But that wasn't to say that the pie wasn't awful, in fact it was delicious... Too bad it looked like something England would pull out of his ungodly oven.

"It make me pleasure smile to know dat dis place isn't going to be blown up, since I like de view." Russia giggled, turning to you with her creepy looking face that could result in two possible endings – One, you become one with Mother Russia or two, your corpse becomes one with Mother Russia. However, you decide to go for the third option you just made up – "Screw this shit, I'm getting the vodka."

So as you steadily rise to your feet, you blurt out, "Look... You're starting to creep me out a bit with your grin, so I'm gonna go and get some vodka, okay?" You give her a goofy grin to try and stop her radiating aura of "kol"s from bouncing off of your head. Slowly, you shuffle towards the edge of the house and mentally pray to God that Russia wasn't suffering from a hangover. The last time you and her spent some time together in your treehouse was New Year's Eve/New Year's Day where the pair of you got smashed from over 9000, or what the hangover felt like you had drank, shots of vodka. She complained about it being cold in the treehouse – weird, since she was Russian and should be used to the cold – so you decided to be a dear and fetch her pink coat, except... You were a bit too honest that day by saying she looked like crap and that resulted in a very abrupt departure. Welcome to the ground, the time here hasn't changed and we thank you for choosing a "Drunk Russian's Boot to the Butt" airways.

Shaking off the memory, you descended down the ladder and retreat inside to grab a nearby bottle, however unbeknownst to you, Russia had found something very interesting lurking under the carpet.

With her interest piqued and her facial structure reverting to its 'I haz discovered something' mode, she carefully picks it up and observes it closely. The letter wasn't creased, wasn't yellowed with age, smelt like wine, tasted weird and had a lot of glitter that happened to spill out from the opened seal, plus Russia could've sworn a little 'ohonhon' crept out of the letter too.

"Well dis is weird..." She mused, pulling out the card and generously coating herself in another layer of glitter, "It's a love letter..." And so with great interest, she opened the card and began to read. She got about three words in, before she tore the accursed thing up and merrily dumped it out of the window. Her 'kol' aura began to accumulate faster than its usual rate, which obviously meant one thing – France was a dead man tomorrow.

Upon leaving the house with a large bottle of vodka and a bag of sunflower seeds, you shiver at the sudden temperature drop and snowstorm that was beginning to brew directly over the treehouse. Curiosity strikes you, as you clamber up the ladder, slipping and cursing slightly since the snowstorm had frozen the ladder. The first thing that catches your eye is the glitter that turned her favourite pink coat into something a female America would probably wear, but before you open your mouth, a herd of 'kol's smack you upside the head and an adorably frosty voice hisses at you saying the words, "You dare compare me to dat American film, den I will make you disappear, da?"

You make a mental note to yourself: Keep Russia away from anything and everything that is glittery.


End file.
